It was a curious structure, that tomb, curious as the railings which the doctor held. The edifice resembled nothing so much as an ornamental, extremely cramped, four-post bedstead, built in marble, with the palisade to keep the vulgar from coming too close to the stony effigy of the great Sir Wyckeley Candlish, Baronet, of the days of good King James; the more especially that, in company with his wife, Dame Candlish, he had apparently gone to bed with all his clothes on. He had been, unless the sculptor's chisel had lied, a man like a bull-headed butcher who had married a cook, and she was represented in her puffs and furbelows, and he in his stuffed breeches and rosetted shoes, feathered cap, and short cape. His feet had the appearance of ornaments, not members for use; and his lady's hands, joined in prayer, were like small gloves, as they lay there side by side. A pair of ornaments upon which their posterity might gaze what time they came to read the eulogy in Latin carved in a panel of the stone bedstead, with arms and escutcheons, and mottoes and puffs that were not true, after the fashion of the time. It was a curious specimen of old-world vanity, so large that it seemed as if it were the principal object of the place--an idol altar, with its gods, about which the chancel had been built for protection. "What trash!" exclaimed North, when he suddenly seemed to awaken to the object at which he gazed, "as if a Candlish was ever of any value in this world--ever did one good or virtuous act." "Any good in this world? Why not at last. Everything seems to point to it. Even the worst of the race might do some good. I'll hesitate no longer. He can't refuse me." "Doctor! Been asleep?" "Asleep, man? No. Never more thoroughly awake." "I asked you to let me have another bottle of that--the tingling stuff. It done me a mort o' good." "Yes, yes," said North huskily. "You shall have some more, old man!" "Ay; that's right," said the old fellow, giving his hands a rub. "Couldn't tell me what it is, could you, so as I might get some of it myself without troubling you?" "What is it? One of my secrets, Moredock, just as you have yours. Trust me, and you shall have as much as is for your good." "Hah! that's right, doctor; that's right," chuckled the old fellow horribly. "I mean to live a long time yet, and may as well do it comfortably. I'll come round to your surgery to-night, and--hist!" he whispered; "is there anything I can bring?" "No--no," said the doctor hastily; "but, Moredock, I do want you to do something for me." "Eh? I do something for you, doctor? It isn't money, is it?" "Money, man? No; I'll tell you what I want." "Hist! parson!" said the old man, giving him a nudge, as a familiar step was heard upon the gravel path of the churchyard; and, directly after, the tall figure of the curate darkened the door. "Ah! North; you here? Having a look round?" "Yes," said the doctor; "and a chat with my old patient."